


beads of water move up the glass

by gasmsinc



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Abandonment, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Animal Death, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Cabin Fic, Dubious Consent, Dubious Knotting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Knotting, M/M, Vampire Bites, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29104980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gasmsinc/pseuds/gasmsinc
Summary: When he wakes, Jonny is alone, but he can hear Patrick sleeping soundly in the closet, the feeling of phantom lips on his neck. He presses his thumb into his neck, smilingly gently to himself as he gets out of bed, tired and aching and not ready to train. He brushes his teeth and showers, listening all the while to the sound of Patrick’s heartbeat thumping away.Thump.Thump.Thump.Like a quiet lullaby.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 14
Kudos: 189
Collections: Into The Woods Hockey RPF Cabin Fic Fest





	beads of water move up the glass

**Author's Note:**

> I based my vampires off of a*nne r*ce vampires and my werewolves off of _teen wolf_ werewolves because why not? I tagged for kidnapping and imprisonment because Patrick is kept in a cabin by the person who turns him into a vampire, not because of Jonny who would _never_ do that to his star, sun, angel, the reason he breathes and gets up in the morning.

When the Blackhawks get bumped out of the playoffs far too early for Jonny’s liking, he packs his bags and books a flight back to Winnipeg the very next day, skipping out on post playoff interviews for the first time in his career. He’s so very tired, and the thought of answering Lazerus’s inane, accusative questions sets his blood on fire. Fleeing to his cabin nestled in the forest a couple of miles outside of Winnipeg is the safest option for everyone involved.

He stops briefly in the city to check in on his mom before he heads to the cabin, an itch he can’t quite scratch aching under his skin the whole drive up. He needs a good run, a good chance to shed his human skin and let himself be free.

The cabin comes into view, nestled against a backdrop of looming oak trees and the reflection on the lake shining bright in the mid-April sun. There’s still a chill in the air, and the threat of a late snowstorm, but he can smell spring just around the corner although the air is brisk, just chilly enough to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up when he exists his jeep.

He takes a deep breath as he closes the car door, sensing immediately that something is _off_. The smell of earth is permeating from the cabin, crisp and strong, reeking as if someone had dug themselves up from the grave and crawled their way in. Upon closer inspection, he discovers that the bolt on the door has been broken off, even though the door itself is still shut. Someone, or some _thing_ , has made its home inside of Jonny’s cabin. His sense of smell tells him that it isn’t human.

He pushes the door open slowly, listening to it creak in the quiet of the day. The scent in the air tells him that whoever has invaded his home is near the back, in the furthest and smallest bedroom. He can’t hear the stranger breathing, but nothing in the air says that someone or something has died, even though an earthy smell lingers.

Jonny follows the scent, stepping quietly and precisely, knowing exactly which boards tend to creak. It’s a slow process to get to the back room, but Jonny is a predator, and he’s used to stalking his prey.

The earthy scent is more powerful here, radiating from the bed where whoever has broken in has taken every single blanket from around the cabin and pilled them on top of the small bed. The curtains have been pulled tight, trying to block out all sunlight.

Jonny takes a step forward, holding his breath against the smell of earth. When the world outside settles, he can hear the slightest intake and exhale from under the pile. It feels like it takes at least another minute before whoever is hiding breathes again.

Jonny knows immediately _what’s_ hiding under the blankets, lips curling back in disgust. Reason tells him that he should pull the curtains open and the blankets back and let the vampire burn to death, but curiosity has always been his downfall. Vampires sleep in deep underground crypts, away from any sunlight; he’s curious as to _why_ this vampire is so blazingly disregarding that.

He moves forward slowly, balancing his weight to avoid the creakiest floorboards. The vampire is deep in sleep, that much is obvious. It hasn’t moved, and its breathing is still shallow, but accidentally waking it up is a stupid idea. Vampires are still dangerous even in the middle of the day; if it can drag Jonny under the blankets where its safely guarded from the sun, then it could do some real damage with its teeth.

He crouches down next to the bed, movements slow as he reaches out to take the edge of the nearest blanket, lifting it ever so slowly. The earth smell becomes even more powerful as he slowly lifts layer after layer, back to the window, blocking out any sun that escapes through the curtains.

Jonny moves the final blanket back.

What he expects is a ghoulish face, ugly and disfigured with time. What he gets is a youthful face, upturned in sleep, mouth pink and soft, blond curls fanning over the pillow. The smell of earth is overpowering, the vampire’s pale, marble-looking skin covered in dirt. The vampire must have spent the day sleeping underground in desperation before breaking into the cabin at night.

Jonny pulls the blanket back over the vampire’s face when its mouth opens and closes, indicating that it’s becoming aware that its sleep is being disturbed.

Logic says that he should pull back all the blankets and expose the vampire to the sun. Vampires are dirty, disgusting, dangerous tricksters—the mortal enemies of werewolves. It’s dangerous to allow the vampire to live, especially after it so brazenly invaded a werewolf’s home—his scent is all _over_ the cabin, there’s no way that the vampire was ignorant to his presence—but something feels cowardly about killing it in such a way.

He replaces each layer of blanket, listening for the slow, deep breathing. The vampire makes a noise in its sleep, snuffing like a child. It must be a young one, freshly turned and quite stupid. Killing such a defenseless little creature in its sleep just seems _wrong_.

His mother always said that he had too soft of a heart.

\- - -

Jonny moves his bags in and gets the generator started, bringing power to the cabin while keeping his ears open for the sounds of the vampire in the backroom. It’s hard to hear its breathing over the steady humming of electricity, so shallow and slow that it would be worrying for any other creature, but vampires aren’t like any other creature alive, if they can even be called _alive_. Their hearts beat slow and their lungs barely take in air until they get blood flowing through veins.

The vampire sleeps through all of Jonny’s pattering about, either overly exhausted or too ignorant. Jonny checks on it once and finds it in the same position that he left it: face upturned as if towards the sun, mouth soft and parted open, like waiting for a kiss. Jonny leaves the vampire as he found it and goes back to making dinner.

When the sun starts to set, Jonny turns off the circuit breaker, cutting off the lights and covering the cabin in silence. It isn’t quite dark yet, but that doesn’t matter. His vision is almost perfect at night, even though it’s a risk to cloak himself in the dark against a vampire, but he has to be able to hear when the vampire wakes and starts to move.

The vampire wakes slowly, coming awake as the sun sets lower and lower. His breathing is still shallow, but Jonny can hear when the bed squeaks and the vampire pads softly across the floor, blanket dragging behind him. He hesitates before leaving the room, earthy smell following him until he appears in the hallway leading to the kitchen, blanket loose around his shoulders.

Even in the starting of darkness his skin is bright, eerily pale. His piercing blue eyes peer at Jonny under heavy lidded eyes as he licks his lips nervously. He makes no move to speak or to step further into the kitchen. His blond curls, somehow brighter than his skin, are a mess, plastered to his forehead with invisible sweat. “Are you going to eat me?”

Jonny cocks his head to the side, perplexed. “What?”

The vampire swallows. “Are you going to eat me?”

Jonny blinks. He’s never heard of a werewolf eating a vampire, not intentionally at least. “Why would I _eat_ you?”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“No.”

“Hmmm,” the vampire says, obviously very, very stupid.

Jonny starts to feel a stupid tug of fondness, low in the pit of his stomach, the same way one feels fondness for a baby animal. There’s something quite helpless about this vampire, and the thought of killing him is starting to feel wrong; there’s obviously something very _off_ about him. “What’s your name?”

The vampire switches his weight from foot to foot, debating. “Patrick,” he settles on. His heart is beating too slow for Jonny to detect a lie.

Patrick moves slowly into the room, always keeping his eyes on Jonny, maybe not as stupid as he appears. He smells too heavily of the earth for Jonny to detect any fear on him, but he’s cautious in his movements as he makes his way to the couch. It’s facing the fireplace, and he has to sit sideways to keep his eyes on Jonny. He’s getting dirt everywhere.

“Do you want to shower?”

Patrick tilts his head to the side, curious. “ _Why_ don’t you want to eat me?”

“You’re too boney.”

Patrick’s eyes go wide and then his mouth slowly forms into a smile, a snort of laughter escaping from between his lips. A smile looks nice on his boyish face.

Jonny leans his elbows on the island. “Who told you werewolves eat vampires?”

Patrick’s smile falters, blanket falling off his shoulders to expose a rosy nipple. His skin is so pale, like smooth marble. Jonny doesn’t want to eat him, but a hunger settles low in his veins. He wants to know what Patrick’s skin would look like marred with bite marks and bruises.

“That’s what _he_ said.” Patrick fails to elaborate on _he_ , but the way he emphasizes the word leads Jonny to believe that Patrick must be speaking about his creator. “He said there was a werewolf in these woods, and that he would eat me if I ever ran away.”

Jonny has smelt the other vampire before, far on the other side of the forest. They’ve had an unspoken truce over the years; Jonny stays on his side of the forest and the vampire on the other. Jonny isn’t here for most of the year, but the vampire has never ventured close to his secluded cabin during the off season, but it probably will now to collect its wayward fledgling that’s run away from home. “And yet you still went into my home.”

Patrick’s shoulders droop, and if he could, he would probably flush. “The sun was coming up and your scent wasn’t strong, I thought you wouldn’t be home by the time I woke up.”

Patrick is so very naïve. It would be a sin to kill him, despite all the trouble he’s sure to cause. Jonny was hoping for a stress-free, easy summer. Usually he doesn’t head up to the cabin so early in the off-season, but this season had felt unusually long and tiring, his bones more achy than usual, his tempter on a short fuse. Pretending to be _normal_ usually proved to be easy, but this year had been especially difficult.

Patrick shifts his weight about nervously. “Are you going to send me back to him?” His eyes go soft, his mouth lax, looking like a kicked puppy. Perhaps he is a bit clever to know to manipulate Jonny’s feelings.

Even if Jonny doesn’t want to kill Patrick, he _should_ send him back to his creator. It’s the way of things. Patrick belongs to the other vampire, and more importantly, vampires and werewolves don’t get along. Jonny might like to wander at night, but he needs to sleep, and he can’t trust that Patrick won’t try to harm him when he lets his guard down. And the same can be said for him; just because Jonny didn’t kill him today, doesn’t mean that he won’t take the opportunity tomorrow.

But Patrick looks so sad sitting there, and he’s such a pretty thing to look at too. Even if he were to attack Jonny in the night, Jonny is sure that he could easily fend him off, and besides, he wants to get his mouth all over that skin. “I won’t send you back. As long as you take a shower and wash the sheets you ruined.”

Patrick visibly brightens, shoulders going back and sighing gratefully. “Thank you,” he says, gathering the blanket around his waist before he stands up. “I promise I won’t try and eat you. I’m a vegetarian.”

Jonny call only roll his eyes, not even wanting to know what Patrick means. “Go shower. There are towels in the linen closet, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

Patrick nods, eyes wide. He’d be blushing, Jonny thinks, if he had the blood to do it. “Thank you,” he says before swiping his pink tongue over one of his canines. “Can I borrow some clothes too?”

Patrick is far more trouble than he’s worth. Jonny sighs, making a shooing motion with his hand. “I’ll leave them outside the door. Go.”

\- - -

What Patrick means by vegetarian is that he won’t drink blood from humans, but the little woodland creatures living around the cabin are fair game.

Jonny watches from the porch as Patrick sits in on the steps in one of his sweaters and a pair of his shorts, humming lowly to himself as he lures a raccoon out of the trees. The animals really aren’t afraid of Jonny, but they know that he’s a predator and mostly stay clear of the cabin. Tonight, they’re being lured by Patrick’s sweet presence—he smells like nectar with all the dirt scrubbed away, sweet and alluring—all the way to the foot of the stairs.

The raccoon doesn’t even know what hits it. Patrick has a hand around its neck in a blink of an eye, snapping its neck before it can even squeal in alarm. He bites into the raccoon’s neck, making some quite frankly disgusting noises as he drinks his fill. When he’s finished, he wanders away from the house to bury the raccoon in the backyard like a dog. Jonny can’t help but be a little endeared to him.

“Why won’t you drink human blood?” he asks when Patrick returns, hands covered in dirt. He’s such a messy little thing to have around the house.

Patrick shrugs. “I haven’t seen one in a very long time. It wouldn’t be right.”

There _are_ humans nearby. Jonny can hear them now. They’re still miles and miles away, but a vampire or werewolf could easily travel the miles between them in a night. “How long have you been,” Jonny vaguely gestures towards Patrick with his hand.

The raccoon’s blood has started to change Patrick’s complexion; the color is coming back into his skin. He’s still pale, but not deathly as before. Jonny can see the embarrassment in his cheeks when he shrugs. “I don’t know. My whole life, I think?”

Jonny raises his eyebrows. “Your whole life?” Vampires aren’t born, not like werewolves. They’re made. And they can live a very long time, even longer than werewolves. Immortal, they say. Until they go mad and willingly jump into a fire, the only other thing that can kill them besides the sun.

“I don’t remember before—” Patrick turns his head away, as if listening for something. Jonny listens too, his sense of hearing much stronger, but he hears nothing but the familiar sounds of the night. “It’s all blurry.”

Jonny nods, even though he doesn’t quite understand. “Right,” he drawls, turning his back on Patrick to walk into the house. Patrick follows dutifully behind, keeping a safe distance, trusting but still somehow not.

Jonny does dishes at the sink, rinsing away the layer of dust that’s accumulated in his absence. Sometimes David will come up during the season to get away from the city, but usually the cabin stays abandoned, locked away tight from human interference with his scent deterring the bears from trying to break in. He always spends the first few days of his summer visit washing dishes and airing out the sheets.

Patrick sits quietly at the island, drying dishes carefully like he’s afraid to break anything. “Why is everything so dirty?”

Jonny doesn’t know what vampires get up to in the middle of the night, but whatever they do Patrick doesn’t seem to want to do it. Instead he wants to follow Jonny around like a lost puppy, not in the least bit subtle about the way he watches him from under a sweep of long, blond eyelashes.

“I’m not here year-round.” Jonny answers absentmindedly, more concerned about scrubbing away a particularly nasty stain on a dish that smells upsettingly like mold.

“Why?”

Jonny lifts his eyes momentarily from the dish. Patrick looks much prettier with some blood in him, healthier. That’s the curse of being a vampire, he supposes. Always looking on the verge of death. “I’m a professional hockey player.”

“What’s that?”

Jonny continues to scrub. “What’s what?”

“A ‘professional hockey player’.”

Jonny pauses. He looks up expecting to see Patrick smiling at him, joking possibly, but Patrick looks dead serious and slightly curious. “You don’t know what a professional hockey player is?”

“Repeating the words doesn’t make me understand what they are,” Patrick mumbles, drying a glass dejectedly.

Jonny stops scrubbing completely. He sets the dish down in the sink and the sponge on the edge. “How do you live in Canada and not know what hockey is?”

Patrick plays with the edge of the cloth nervously, tugging it back and forth between his nimble fingers. “Canada?”

With the blood thrumming through Patrick’s veins, there’s no hiding from Jonny. He can smell every emotion, every stutter of breath, every skip of his heartbeat. If he lies about anything, Jonny will know. Right now he’s being dead honest, face flushed with embarrassment.

How long has he been secluded away with his creator that he doesn’t know what country he’s in? Jonny has never sensed Patrick before, but then again, the fledgling smells like sweet nectar; he could easily blend into the smell of summer. In winter his presence would have been more apparent, but Jonny is never here during winter. “How old are you, Patrick?”

“Nineteen?” Patrick answers quietly. “I was nineteen when—but I don’t know.” He licks his lips, tugging at the cloth again. “Everything is very blurry. I think I’ve been a vampire my whole life, but that’s not right. I _know_ I was nineteen. It was the only number I knew how to write—someone taught me how, but I don’t remember who. I’ve always been there, at the cabin with _him_ , but that’s not right either.” He sighs, looking down at the island. “Sometimes I could hear things—people, but staticky. And music. The music, it’s changed a lot, hasn’t it? For a while it was just instruments, but then there started to be voices too. Sometimes the people don’t say nice things.”

Jonny’s Canadian history is pretty spotty at the best of times, his world history even less concrete. He doesn’t know when music really stopped being just a composition of instruments and started to incorporate words, or when it started to air across the radio. The early 1900s, possibly? But surely Patrick would have known that he was in Canada by then?

Vampires are ancient beings who have walked the Earth longer than werewolves have existed. Patrick has the youthful appearance of a boy just on the cusps of manhood, but he could be two hundred or six hundred years old, there’s not telling, not without the help of his master who hopefully isn’t as lost as Patrick is about his own history. As fascinating and puzzling Patrick’s life story is, Jonny feels no inclination to pay his master a visit.

“Canada is a country,” Jonny finally says. “It’s the country we’re in now. Hockey is kind of our thing.”

He can tell by the look on Patrick’s face that he either doesn’t know what ‘country’ means, or that he’s confused by ‘hockey’. “Here,” he pulls out his phone, scrolling absently through his videos. There’s barely any cell reception out here, but he has a few videos of himself saved to his phone.

He sets the phone in front of Patrick, letting a video of him absolutely humiliating Max Domi during a powerplay and scoring shorthanded play. The video is years old now, but he keeps it saved to watch from time to time. Humiliating racists always makes him happy.

Patrick watches the video, head cocked to the side. “That’s you,” he says, lifting his head to look at Jonny, eyes curious.

Jonny nods. “That’s me.”

“You do this for a living? Play with sticks on ice?”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that,” Jonny huffs, rolling his eyes. “But yes. That’s what I do for a living. I work from September to April, but sometimes until June.” He doesn’t feel like explaining the complexity of a hockey season, so he lets the subject drop, reaching out to take his phone back, but Patrick reaches out too, hand floating above the phone, hesitating.

“Can I watch it again?”

Jonny presses play again. Patrick watches, just as enthralled as the first time, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “Do you like it?”

“It’s not so bad,” Jonny says, trying to keep his love and excitement out of his voice. Surely Patrick can pick up on his emotions in the same way that he can. He loves his job, _lives_ for it, literally. “Tiring, sometimes.”

“You’re a wolf,” says Patrick. “You don’t get tired.”

Patrick is right about that. Jonny doesn’t get physically exhausted, not in the same way as his teammates. He might sweat buckets, but he doesn’t really feel any exhaustion. A lot of the time he’s putting on a show, breathing hard and gulping down water so that no one will expect something is _off_ about him. “You’re right, I don’t get tired. It’s mentally exhausting, I suppose. Always have to know where the puck is before it leaves the other guy’s stick.”

Patrick nods, going back to the phone. He watches the video again. “What does this mean? On your shirt?” He’s pointing to Jonny’s ‘C’, white and bold against the familiar red of the Hawks jersey.

“It’s a ‘C’ for captain. It means I’m the leader.”

Patrick nods, chewing his lip, delicate enough not to pierce the skin of his lip with his fangs. “These people with you, they’re your pack?”

Jonny considers his teammates _a_ pack but not _the_ pack. He’s protective over them, even the ones he doesn’t particularly like. The rookies look to him for guidance and follow him around like lost puppies sometimes. Fondness grips him a lot when he thinks about his team, despite how shit they may be at times. They are his family, even when he wants to murder every single one of them. “Yes, they’re my pack.”

“You’re the Alpha?”

“Why do you know so much about werewolves?”

Patrick shrugs. He presses play on the video one more time, decent enough to respect Jonny’s privacy and not go fishing for more, or perhaps he just doesn’t know how a phone works. He doesn’t seem particularly puzzled by any of the electronics in the cabin, so he must have had at least _some_ exposure to the 21st century. “There were books, with pictures about wolves. I couldn’t read all the words, but I guessed it was the same.”

Suddenly Jonny has an image of Patrick in some bleak, windowless room, drafty and cold, huddled around a National Geographic book, long fingers dancing over glossy pictures of wolves in the dark, trying to put two and two together about wolves and the werewolf that would apparently eat him if he ever ran away. How miserable of an existence to have lived.

Jonny’s heart is too big for the personality he wishes that he had. Too kind, is the way his mother always described him. Heart always on his sleeve for the people he loves and the things he believes in.

He has a very eerie feeling that he will not be leaving for Chicago at the end of the summer alone.

\- - -

Jonny stays awake their first night living together.

He already has an inclining of fondness that he suspects will be difficult to rid himself of for his new vampire roommate, but he still doesn’t feel comfortable enough to sleep. He’s not very tired to begin with, that itch still under his skin, so it isn’t a hardship to remain awake.

If Patrick feels any which way about Jonny’s sudden insomnia, he doesn’t make his feelings known. Instead he asks politely for more hockey videos, with or without Jonny in them. Jonny doesn’t have many, because he’s not a narcissist. Patrick goes through the videos quickly but replays them over and over again until Jonny’s phone dies. When he pops into the nearby town to restock his supplies later this week, Jonny will take his iPad with him and download some games and clips using the local Starbucks’s WiFi.

At some point Patrick leaves to go lure some other helpless animal to its death and bury it in the backyard. Jonny doesn’t appreciate the smell of rotting carcass, but they _are_ in the forest—animals die all the time without a proper burial. “It’s rude to kill something and not give it the proper goodbye,” Patrick explains, washing his hands of dirt in the sink.

Patrick is very polite, saying please and thank you and making sure to not crowd Jonny’s space. He’s even apologetic about draining the phone battery, even though Jonny reassures him that he can easily recharge it. Maybe Patrick’s master taught him politeness above all other things, even towards their meals.

Jonny can’t figure out if Patrick is just very strange for a vampire, or strangely on par. He’s only met one other vampire in his life, and they had been old and ghoulish and moments from stepping into the sun. Jonny had felt sorry for the creature then, watching as its pitiful existence came to an end. Everything he knows about vampires has come down from stories passed on from one generation to another. Werewolves and vampires have never got on, endlessly fighting and killing each other, but come to think of it, he’s never really known _why_.

“Is your master a vegetarian?”

Patrick visibly bristles at the mention of his master. He’s curled up under a pile of blankets at the very edge of the sofa, eyes barely leaving the fireplace where Jonny’s lit the fire, obviously very cautious, his scent giving off just the hint of fear. The fireplace is the only real source of heat when the temperatures drop; it’s still early April, not quite warm enough at night to open all the windows to let cool air in and go without it. Patrick has visibly been cold since he returned from his last meal, and only put up a weak protest when Jonny suggested using the fireplace.

“Yes,” he answers, voice muffled by blankets, failing to elaborate.

Jonny’s perched himself next to the hearth in an attempt to reassure Patrick that he has the fire under control. From this angle, Patrick is just a lump of blankets with a blond mop on top. Jonny doesn’t press him for any more answers. Patrick doesn’t sound fond whenever his master is brought up. There’s a reason _why_ he finally ran away after so much time together, but he doesn’t seem inclined to give it, despite how forthcoming he’s been about everything else.

Jonny wants to know based off of basic curiosity, but he doesn’t push. Patrick is an old book whose pages are slowly starting to fall apart. Soon enough he’ll have his answer.

\- - -

Patrick sleeps in the furthest most room, the smallest of all four. It’s at the far back of the house and doesn’t get much direct sunlight. It’s the perfect place to hunker down and hide, as long as Patrick has his pile of blankets to block out the sun. It’s not one hundred percent dark in there, but it’s enough to make Patrick feel safe.

Jonny checks on him throughout the day like a worried mother hen. He has such a soft spot for the wayward vampire, and despite his earlier small allowance of disgust, he doesn’t want any actual harm to befall him. He checks on Patrick every few hours, making sure that the curtains are firmly shut and that the blankets are still securely in place.

Sometimes he only pokes his head in to check, and at other times he carefully pulls back the blankets to reveal Patrick’s face. Patrick always looks like a renaissance cherub in his sleep, head tilted up, blond curls sprawling across the pillow, his pretty little mouth always slightly parted open.

The first few times Jonny invasively checks on him, Patrick reacts in his sleep, mouth opening and closing, body twitching at the disturbance, warning him that he’s in danger. Jonny always swiftly replaces the blankets and leaves, allowing Patrick to calm down and feel safe again, but eventually Patrick gets used to his presence, barely reacting to him other than to sniffle in his sleep. It’s concerning that he’s this damn trusting already. Without Jonny or his master, Patrick’s dumb ass is sure to die.

Patrick is a full-fledged prince of the night; a fledgling, but nonetheless, a god damn vampire. He _should_ be more than capable of taking care of himself, but he’s a trusting little fool sleeping in the home of a werewolf without a care in the world, and if _that’s_ not a sign that a few marbles are missing from Patrick’s collection, Jonny doesn’t know what is.

He’ll have to keep Patrick safe until Patrick decides what he wants to do with his life. He can’t just let the wayward vampire out into the big wide world, especially when Patrick doesn’t even know that he’s in _Canada_ for fuck’s sake.

He’ll also have to find a new sleeping arrangement for Patrick. It’s not safe for him to be sleeping so out in the open, not even with Jonny around to protect him. Something might go horribly wrong, like the curtain rod breaking and the sun penetrating through the blankets, burning Patrick to a crisp before Jonny even realizes what’s happened.

Jonny sighs to himself.

This is going to be a _very_ long summer.

\- - -

Despite the irritation Jonny _should_ feel at Patrick invading his quiet alone time at the cabin, he grows accustomed to having the vampire around. He has his privacy during the day to do whatever he pleases, like his morning run, or shedding his human skin to take a long, leisurely stroll around his territory.

He can smell Patrick’s master just on the perimeter, but the other creature never makes a move to come collect his fledgling. Either he just doesn’t care that Patrick’s run away, or perhaps he’s waiting for a time when Jonny isn’t around. Jonny doesn’t know, and quite frankly, he doesn’t care. Either way he’s made up his mind about returning Patrick: if Patrick doesn’t _want_ to go back, then Jonny won’t force him, and he’ll deal with the senior vampire the only way he knows how: exposing it to the sun.

Patrick, upon Jonny’s instance, takes to sleeping in the crawlspace under the cabin. It’s pretty disgusting the first time Jonny crawls under there to check it out. At one point a family of raccoons were brave enough to make it their den, and he spends the better part of a day painstakingly clearing it of animal droppings, leftover food, and the tattered remains of their nest.

It’s not the most comfortable place to sleep, but its dark and its quiet and when Jonny adds a few pieces of board to the exterior it blocks out all the sun. Patrick will be safe under there, unless the cabin somehow catches on fire, which is highly unlikely. Jonny can hear it the moment a spark catches, his ears even more attuned to what’s going on around him now. If he’s not able to stop a fire when it starts, he’ll at least be able to buy himself enough time to get Patrick out and somewhere safe. Jonny drags the blankets down under the cabin and buys a few extra in town, just to make it warmer for Patrick and to have something on hand to cover him with in case of an emergency.

It’s a lot of work for a vampire who buries dead raccoons in his backyard like a dog, but Jonny can’t help but be thoroughly charmed by Patrick. He’s pretty to look at, especially after he’s just woken up and his skin is pale and smooth as marble, the only color to his skin found in his lips and the rosy pink of his nipples. He sleeps naked, emerging from the crawlspace with only a blanket wrapped around his body. Sometimes he goes straight to take a shower to warm up, but other times he settles on the sofa and makes sad eyes at Jonny until Jonny lights the fire and hands over his iPad so he can watch hockey.

It’s not hard to be totally enamored with the vampire. Patrick is harmless, more interested in pestering Jonny about why he gets so angry every time he gets sent to the penalty box than he is about trying to cause Jonny any harm, not that Patrick really could. He’s too small, and without human blood to really nourish him, he’ll never have the strength to overpower Jonny in a fight.

He’s a sort of company that Jonny didn’t know that he needed. He came to the cabin to get away and be alone, but Patrick offers comfortable, easy companionship. He doesn’t make any demands of Jonny other than to have the iPad charged so he can re-watch hockey games and to answer the odd question or two. Patrick is a considerate housemate, helping Jonny with the laundry in the early hours of the night and helping him clean the kitchen after Jonny cooks, even though he can’t eat anything.

Patrick expects nothing of him and that’s the most refreshing feeling Jonny’s felt in years. He spends so much time being this _person_ for his family, for his team, for an entire franchise built on his back. He’s expected to be goal scorer, a leader, a role model, the _perfect human being_. Patrick expects none of that from him, and it’s _refreshing_.

Jonny begins to feel comfortable enough with Patrick around to sleep at night. He often remains awake until the early morning hours to keep Patrick company before he retires to the master bedroom.

He isn’t exactly sure what Patrick gets up to at night, but it can’t be anything too extreme. Sometimes Jonny hears the front door open and close quietly, but Patrick never strays far, always coming back within ten minutes. Jonny guesses that he’s going out to feed on whatever little animals he can trick into coming close enough. Soon enough he’ll eat all of the raccoons in the vicinity and will have to expand out further.

This all could be solved if he were to just go into town and drank from a human. Not enough to kill them, but just enough to get his fill. Animal blood can’t be sustaining Patrick; vampires were _made_ to drink human blood.

Jonny doesn’t nag him about this. If Patrick wants to be a “vegetarian”, then that’s his call. He’s survived this long drinking raccoon blood, a few more months can’t do him much more harm.

Sometimes Jonny can hear Patrick’s soft footsteps in the hallway, stopping just outside his door. Unlike his own constant pestering, Patrick doesn’t pass the threshold to his room. Jonny suspects that he presses his ear to the door, listening, but it’s hard to tell. After a few minutes Patrick usually moves away, and Jonny goes back to sleep. It’s their nightly routine, similar to their day one.

Only once does Patrick open the door and actually come in.

Patrick had woken up in a melancholy mood, taking longer than usual to make an appearance in the house. He hadn’t wanted to watch any hockey, and instead had taken to lying under a blanket on the sofa. At one point he had gotten up, blanket falling away from his naked body, and had taken the scissors from the knife block, suddenly chopping off his hair.

Jonny had watched in object horror, mortified as the blond curls had fallen away, leaving behind a choppy, haphazard mess.

“It will grow back,” Patrick had said, voice neutral in a way that Jonny had never heard before. “It always grows back.”

He had disappeared shortly after that, staying away for the rest of the night, leaving Jonny to sweep up the mess.

Now, he stands in Jonny’s bedroom doorway, watching him.

Jonny senses his presence immediately, the sweet smell of nectar assaulting him at once. He keeps his eyes shut, claws extended out under the pillow. He doesn’t want to kill Patrick, but he will if he has to.

Patrick approaches the bed, footsteps feather light. He’s become aware of which floorboards creak and avoids them stealthily. He stops next to Jonny and reaches out with surprisingly warm fingers to push his overgrown hair from his face. It only takes a moment for Jonny to realize that Patrick’s checking on him, the same way he does to him throughout the day.

Patrick runs his fingers back and forth across Jonny’s forehead. He can feel Patrick’s eyes on him, watching his face. He feels it when he leans in, keeping his surprise in check when Patrick’s soft lips brush over his forehead.

When Patrick pulls back after hesitating for too long, Jonny strikes. He grabs Patrick by the wrist, startling him forward until their faces are close together. Patrick’s eyes are heavy and wide, breath steady.

Jonny searches his face, looking for any signs of fear or worry, but Patrick doesn’t fear him, that’s obvious; he just didn’t expect for Jonny to be awake. His senses are dulled, pathetic even. Any creature with Patrick’s hearing capabilities should have been able to hear Jonny’s heart rate and known that he was awake. His master has taught him nothing.

Patrick is pathetic, but it’s not his fault. He’s been failed remarkably by the one person who was supposed to teach him how to exist as a vampire. “You should have known that I was awake.”

Patrick swallows. “I can’t hear you, not the way you can hear me. I wanted to make sure that you were alright, like you do for me.”

Jonny lets go of his wrist. He scoots over, lifting the duvet, inviting Patrick in. Patrick doesn’t need the sleep, but he takes the invitation, sliding in next to Jonny. This is the closest they’ve been to each other while both awake. Patrick’s heart is beating away slowly, confident that he’s safe.

Patrick turns on his side to face Jonny as Jonny looks up at the ceiling. “I’m not a very good vampire, am I?”

“No,” Jonny replies honestly. “You’re really not.”

Patrick sighs heavily. He shifts about until his head rests against Jonny’s arm. His curls are prickly, slowly growing back out. Come morning they’ll be long again, framing his boyish face that hasn’t changed a day since he was turned. Eternally youthful and beautiful until he decides to throw himself into the sun. It’s a curse. “Do you know a lot about vampires?”

“I know enough to know that you’re really bad at being one.”

Patrick grunts. He shifts again, drawing even closer to Jonny, like he’s craving physical contact. Jonny moves his arm, throwing it up so Patrick can move closer, shuffling up close to his chest. Patrick’s heart is starting to slow down, his breaths coming out in shorter intervals. He might have to feed soon.

He falls silent, a warm presence at Jonny’s side. The slow beating of his heart is enough to almost lull Jonny back to sleep. “I don’t think I ever wanted to be a vampire.”

“Hm?” Jonny grunts, opening his eyes.

“I think he watched me for a long time,” Patrick continues, voice heavy with emotion. “I think—I was dying. I’m sure of it. Sometimes I would cough and there would be blood. They called it—”

“Consumption,” Jonny interrupts.

“Yes,” Patrick agrees, voice soft. “That’s what they called it.”

If Patrick had been dying of tuberculosis when he was turned, then maybe he was alive during the nineteenth century. He’s over two hundred years old possibly, and a total failure at being a vampire. Has he spent his entire existence with his master secluded in this forest, learning nothing?

“He took me when I was dying,” Patrick carries on. “There was a . . . train.”

Jonny looks over. Patrick is blinking in the night, face confused, like the memories are coming back to him. Hazy, blurry, probably stuffed down after years and years of the same repetitive nature of his literal prison, because that’s the only thing that the other cabin could be: a prison. “We rode for a long time, days on end. He wasn’t there, but there were other people. Humans, maybe? I don’t remember much, but they gave me a drink. A medicine, I think. It made my cough better.”

“I don’t—I don’t remember it happening, I think I was too busy dying.” Patrick snorts, laughing against Jonny’s chest. “Too busy dying, can you imagine?” He laughs again, but the noise turns into a snuffle, like he’s about to cry. “And then I was a vampire and I never left that cabin ever again.”

“Not until now,” Jonny says.

He feels it when Patrick nods. “Not until now.” He sighs heavily, shoulders slumping. “Can I stay here?”

Patrick doesn’t need the sleep, not now, but if he just wants to lie here, Jonny doesn’t care. There’s nothing Patrick can do to harm him, not that he thinks that Patrick would, and it’s nice to have him here, heart beating away so quietly like a lullaby.

Jonny grunts, making a show of it to turn on his side, facing Patrick. Patrick’s skin has paled, but his eyes are still piercingly blue. “Why did you decide to run away?”

Patrick licks his lips. “I was finally tired of being trapped.” He turns on his side, back to Jonny. Jonny wraps his arm around his waist, dragging him closer, chin hooked over his shoulder.

He can’t feel Patrick breathing anymore, but his heartbeat is enough to lull him to sleep.

\- - -

Patrick takes to lying in Jonny’s bed while he sleeps, always slipping away before dawn.

He wants comfort and ‘human’ interaction in any form that he can get. It’s quite pathetic really, but Jonny’s always enjoyed cuddling, and it’s not like it’s a hardship to have Patrick in his bed. His body is always warm, his skin textured marble. The first time they met, Jonny wanted to put his mouth all over him, bruise every pale inch of skin with his mouth, but he resists for now.

They don’t talk about the cuddling. Jonny just announces that he’s going to bed and Patrick follows, waiting patiently for him to piss and brush his teeth before crawling into bed alongside him. Sometimes Patrick opens up about what he can remember of his life as a human in the quiet hours of the morning. There’s not much that he _can_ remember, but he paints a picture of extreme poverty and destitution, familiar with life in the nineteenth century.

He doesn’t offer much about his life with his master, other than to allude at times that he felt trapped but too afraid to leave. There wasn’t just a werewolf in the forest that would eat him, his master had said. There were ghouls and demons and other vampires too, all willing to kill a lone fledgling.

Jonny doesn’t understand how Patrick could fall repeatedly for such lies for two fucking centuries, but he’s naïve, and trusting, and was taken when he was most vulnerable. Alone with a vampire that had just kidnapped him across an entire country, Jonny would have believed anything he was told too.

Patrick still won’t open up about _why_ he finally decided to leave, and Jonny is surprised that he was even _allowed_ to, but he’s not worried about Patrick’s former master. He might not be hundreds of years old, but he has the strength of ten men, and the element of surprise on his side. It’s cowardly to open the coffin of a vampire and kill them during the middle of the day, but he’d do just about anything to keep Patrick safe.

(His protectiveness over Patrick is not a conversation that he wishes to have with himself, so he stuffs it down and plays it off as being a werewolf. Once someone is “pack” it’s up to the alpha to keep them safe, and aren’t they a little pack, just the two of them?)

April slowly bleeds into May, and then May into June. It’s hot enough to start taking dips in the lake, but too hot during the day for Patrick to continue sleeping in the crawlspace.

“We need to get you a coffin, or build a crypt.”

Patrick wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think that’s a real thing, sleeping in a coffin.”

Jonny’s actually never _seen_ a vampire sleep in a coffin, and it might be all Hollywood hearsay, but at least a coffin would be secure and block out the sun and would be much easier to transport Patrick in when the time comes for them to head back to Chicago because _surely_ Patrick is coming to Chicago with him.

“Where did you sleep before?”

“Under the ground. It’s cool there, and the sun can’t get you if you bury deep enough, but it’s a lot of work, digging a hole and then covering yourself back up.”

“And that’s what you want to do now? Sleep underground?”

Patrick shakes his head. “No, but how are you going to get a coffin? Doesn’t someone have to die first?”

Jonny doesn’t quite know how to explain to Patrick that he’s a multimillionaire. No one has to die first if he wants a coffin. He can just have one made and then pay people to be quiet about it. “I can get a coffin without someone dying. What color do you want?”

Patrick purses his lips together, looking thoughtful. “I don’t want to sleep in a coffin.”

“The crawlspace is too stuffy now. You don’t sleep well under there.”

“Can you board up the windows in your room?” Patrick asks, going all doe-eyed and soft around the mouth because he _knows_ that Jonny is soft for him. “I can sleep there, under the bed.”

Jonny had been drying a mug when this conversation started. He puts it down now, cocking his head to the side. “You want me to board up the windows of my room so you can sleep there?”

Patrick shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Where else should I sleep?”

Ah, this little fucker. Has Jonny wrapped around his nimble, pale finger, like a whipped bull. He knew Jonny would say yes even before he asked.

Jonny sighs heavily. “I’ll board up the windows in the morning.”

Patrick smiles, all teeth like the Cheshire cat.

\- - -

Jonny boards up his bedroom windows.

Patrick sleeps under the bed for a whole of two days before he takes to just sleeping in Jonny’s bed throughout the day, very unconcerned about the boards coming loose. He knows that Jonny has nailed the boards on twenty times over and checks them every single day to make sure that they’re still securely in place. He _trusts_ Jonny so much, and that trust makes Jonny more and more fond every single day.

Patrick has him wrapped around his little finger. That was probably his plan from day one: seduce Jonny with his lithe body and rosy pink nipples and then make him so overly fond that he’s incapable of telling the vampire no. He’s smarter and more manipulative than he appears, that’s for sure, but Jonny adores him so very much. It’s not a hardship to pay a shit ton of money to have wifi installed at the cabin so Patrick can watch as much YouTube as he wants, or to have a new iPad delivered to the post office in town just for him.

He’s _whipped_ , but seeing Patrick smile as he watches hockey video after hockey video on YouTube and grows a dislike for the Preds and Blues is worth it. Jonny only had to nudge him in the right direction for Patrick to scorn both teams. He’s never been prouder.

“Jonny?” Patrick says out of the blue one day after going through a hockey binge. He doesn’t have that sweet-song tone in his voice that means that he’s about to bat his pretty little eyelashes and ask for something.

Jonny doesn’t believe that Patrick actually knows that he’s wealthy, or at least not in the terms of modern society, but he does know that Jonny has money. He once saw the receipt for Jonny’s groceries—a measly forty dollars, but he had made a face like that was the largest amount of money that he’d ever heard of before. Jonny had looked up inflation for 1890. A measly forty dollars today was worth nearly a thousand back when Patrick was maybe alive.

Patrick might not know that he’s rich _rich_ , but he does know that Jonny can buy him things that he sees in the advertisements on YouTube. He doesn’t ask for much, just merchandise that Jonny can get for free, but he does know that Jonny will get it for him.

“Hmm?” Jonny responds, turning the page of his book. It’s a cool summer’s night, and they’ve taken to sitting on the porch. Patrick’s lured a squirrel nearby, but he doesn’t seem inclined to go catch it.

“Where’s Buffalo?”

Jonny hasn’t been paying attention to the game Patrick’s been watching. He’s grown accustomed to tuning it out, mostly because Patrick likes to watch old Hawks games that Jonny was alive and present for. The games bring back fond and not so fond memories and the reminder that even though it’s only June and Lord Stanley hasn’t even gone home yet, the season is just around the corner. “It’s a city in New York.”

“New York,” Patrick mumbles to himself, chewing on his bottom lip. It always amazes Jonny how he never manages to cut himself with his teeth. “Could you ride a train there, from here?”

“I don’t know,” Jonny shrugs. “Why don’t you look it up?”

He’s been encouraging Patrick to use the internet for more than just watching hockey. It’s sometimes overwhelming for Patrick, but he’s taken to technology like a pro. He might not understand how it all works, but he does know how to get what he wants.

“The circle with the colors, remember?” Jonny says helpfully when Patrick exists out of YouTube and can’t find the Google chrome app. Sometimes it’s like watching his grandpa try and work the iPad. “Just type in the top bar and Google will find it for you.”

Patrick sticks his tongue out, concentrating before he gets frustrated. He grunts in irritation, clambering off the lounge chair where he was reclining on his stomach to stick the iPad under Jonny’s nose. “I don’t know how to write it.”

Jonny will have to get Patrick some sort of tutor, someone who can teach him how to read and write. He’s made an attempt to write out his question phonically, but it’s all gibberish.

When the search results come up, Patrick wiggles his way onto Jonny’s lap. He’s never sought physical affection outside of Jonny’s— _their_ —bed before. It takes Jonny by surprise momentarily, but Patrick settles his weight quickly, like he’s used to perching on Jonny’s lap. Jonny says nothing, just wraps his arms around Patrick’s small waist to hold the tablet better.

“What does it say?”

“No direct route between Winnipeg and Buffalo,” Jonny answers, scrolling absentmindedly with his thumb. “Could take a train from Buffalo to Toronto, then Toronto to here. Why? You want to go to Buffalo?”

Patrick keeps hearing team cities and then pestering Jonny into agreeing to take him to visit. He wants to explore the world, or at least North America. Jonny doesn’t know how easy it will be to get Patrick to and from. He’s going to have to illegally smuggle him into America in the back of the Jeep come August, so he doesn’t think a world tour will be possible.

“It sounds familiar,” Patrick mutters, pressing link after link until Google brings up a picture of the modern-day Buffalo. “I think I’ve heard the name before.”

“Probably from all the hockey you watch. There’s a team there, remember? You like Skinner.”

Patrick shakes his head, curls tickling Jonny’s nose. “No—I mean. From _before_. I don’t think I was always here.”

“He took you on a train, remember?” Jonny reminds him gently, squeezing Patrick’s hip. “You weren’t always in Winnipeg.”

Patrick shakes his head again. “How do I find old pictures. Ones of Buffalo? When I was alive?”

Pinpointing when Patrick _exactly_ was alive is a complex issue made even more difficult without a birth certificate or any other information. Patrick doesn’t even know his own last name, which makes it incredibly difficult to look up any sort of record of him. Jonny tried a brief search through the Vital Statistics Agency’s website, but without a last name or a birth year it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack. Patrick wasn’t a very common name back in the 1800s, and the agency only has records as far back as 1882, but that’s still a shit ton of years to look through, and Patrick could have been born before 1882 or born somewhere else entirely.

A brief search of Buffalo in the 1800s only reveals a few, poorly taken photos. It’s possible that the city archives, or even the state’s, would have better pictures, or maybe even a map with a street name to jog Patrick’s memory. “Do you think you’re from Buffalo?”

Patrick pulls on his bottom lip. “Maybe? It sounds—it sounds so _familiar_. Like home.”

Maybe Patrick _is_ from Buffalo. Currently there’s no direct route between Buffalo and Winnipeg, but who’s to say that there wasn’t one back in the day? And maybe if there wasn’t a direct route, it’s possible that Patrick had switched trains and doesn’t remember, or was too strung out on the medicine that they gave him to notice.

“You’re an American,” Jonny huffs.

Patrick turns in his lap, frowning. “Is that bad?”

Patrick is blissfully unaware of the trials and tribulations of American and world politics. “No,” Jonny lies, petting Patrick’s hip. He’s in a pair of Jonny’s shorts that are far too big for him, exposing a taut patch of skin stretched over his hipbone. Patrick has a lithe body, probably caused by slowly dying from tuberculosis. “We have a rivalry between us, in hockey.”

“Hm,” Patrick hums like he doesn’t quite believe Jonny. He hasn’t watched any of the Olympic games yet, but he’ll get there soon enough. When they get to Chicago, Jonny will show him his medals and his Stanley Cup rings. “Is there a way to know, for sure? On the internet. You said you can find anything on the internet.”

Patrick sounds so _hopeful_ that Jonny doesn’t want to crush any of his hopes, but without a birthdate or even a last name it might be damn near impossible. Maybe a private investigator might be able to figure something out, but asking someone to look that far back will raise questions that Jonny doesn’t want to answer. Maybe a genealogist could track something down, but they don’t have _anything_ except for Patrick’s foggy memories to go off of.

The one person who will be able to answer that question is Patrick’s creator. Patrick’s memories might be foggy, but his creator’s are probably as sharp as a knife.

Jonny can’t go to Patrick’s creator and ask these questions without him knowing. “We’d have to ask your creator, Peeks. Without a—”

“No!” Patrick yells, jumping up so quickly that he knocks the iPad out of Jonny’s hands. It goes flying across the floor, landing on the opposite side of the porch. Patrick is breathing hard, even though he hasn’t fed in hours. “ _No_ ,” he insists. “We don’t need to ask him _anything_.”

“Okay,” Jonny agrees, standing up to fetch the iPad. “We won’t ask him anything.” The screen has cracked.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says when he sees the screen, voice rising. “I didn’t mean to.”

It’s only a screen. There’s a shop in town that can easily replace the screen and if not, Jonny can always buy Patrick another one. “It’s okay, Patrick. We can—”

“Please don’t send me back to him!”

Patrick looks ready to have a full-blown panic attack. There are tears streaming down his face, staining his cheeks red. He’s breathing raggedly, clinging to the guardrail. “ _Please_.”  
Jonny sets the iPad on the table before opening his arms, inviting Patrick into his embrace. “I’m _not_ sending you back to him.” Patrick doesn’t step forward, just continues to stand in place and cry. “I _won’t_ send you back. If he comes anywhere near you, I’ll rip him apart with my teeth, okay? You never have to be with him again.”

Patrick shakes his head, tugging at his sleeve. His shorts are about to fall off his boney hips. “Come here,” Jonny demands.

When Patrick still makes no attempt to move, Jonny uses his alpha voice, the one he uses on the rookies when they’re being dumb teenagers. They don’t know what he’s doing to them, but they always listen. “ _Come here_.” Patrick stumbles forward right into Jonny’s arms.

Jonny hugs him close, not caring that Patrick’s tears are going to stain his white top. “Listen to me,” he says, burying one hand into Patrick’s curls to hold his head against his chest. “You’re _mine_ now. I’m not giving you back to him, alright? You’re stuck with me for forever now, and I’m not going to send you away or abandon you over a cracked screen. You’re a little brat, but you’re _my_ brat.”

Patrick makes a choked off noise, sobbing into Jonny’s chest. Jonny doesn’t believe for one moment that this is just about the screen, or about asking Patrick’s creator for information about who he is. Patrick has been subtly terrified that Jonny will send him back or leave him here for weeks now. He doesn’t want to be alone, not in this giant world that’s a mystery to him, and he doesn’t want to throw himself into the sun or live the rest of his existence in a cabin with his kidnapper. He wants a _life_ , and he wants that life to be with Jonny.

He’s an idiot for not realizing that he was Jonny’s sooner.

\- - -

Patrick becomes much more affectionate towards Jonny after he confirms that he is “one hundred and twenty percent” going with him to Chicago come August. He holds Jonny’s hand when they go for walks around Jonny’s territory, and insists on sitting between his legs on the sofa while Jonny tries to read. He’s an annoying little brat, but he’s warm and maybe not so boney and looks at Jonny like Jonny has hung the moon just for him. Jonny can’t imagine leaving him behind, no matter how difficult it’ll be to sneak Patrick into the States.

He’ll have to stay in the back of the Jeep hidden under blankets to avoid border control until they safely cross the border into the States. After clearing customs they’ll drive to Grand Forks and take a private plane to Chicago. Hopefully, if they leave exactly as the sunsets and clear border control without any hiccups, they’ll make the journey in one night.

Jonny doesn’t know what he’ll do if they’re not safely in his condo come daybreak or if border control stops him. He can probably eat the border control agents if he has to, but that’s messy and will probably be streamed all over the internet, thus ending his career and sending them into hiding, defeating the whole purpose of Patrick running away. If the sun starts to rise, he’ll just have to dig a hole and bury Patrick in it and hope for the best.

Jonny doesn’t worry Patrick with these possible. Patrick already seems nervous enough about flying on a plane, even a small one. He distinctly doesn’t remember airplanes or cars, just trains and lots of steel, as he puts it. He thinks that he worked in a factory, but he doesn’t quite remember the details.

Before Jonny took him for a spin in the Jeep down to town to pick up the iPad from the repair shop, Patrick had never been in a car. He had heard them before, had even seen them on TV—his creator had a small television and even a phone that looked like Jonny’s, but older. _He_ was allowed to leave the cabin, but not Patrick. Older and stronger, he had said when Patrick had asked why. He could handle the werewolves and ghouls, but a weakling like Patrick couldn’t. Patrick had listened and hid away until his master returned safely every night.

Jonny has a sneaking suspicion that Patrick’s creator has kept him a “vegetarian” to keep him subdued and docile and easier to control, all the while he’s been feeding off of humans. Without the human blood he needs, Patrick’s body hasn’t gotten the nutrients that it needs to thrive. He can’t hear, see, or move in a way that all vampires should. Docile, sweet, and naïve, Patrick has been the perfect victim.

Jonny wasn’t going to interfere in Patrick’s “vegetarianism”, but he can’t let Patrick keep living like this. He _needs_ to start drinking human blood and soon—they’ll be returning to Chicago in a few weeks, and even though the city has its fair share of parks and the odd raccoon or two, there aren’t enough woodland creatures in Chicago to sustain him. He could start eating peoples’ pets and the city’s stray animals, but something tells him that Patrick won’t like to do that.

He’ll have to convince Patrick to give up on drinking animal blood and move on to human blood instead, but Patrick has such an aversion to the idea. He’s afraid to hurt someone, with his kind little soul, but he won’t. Patrick is a gentle soul, and it’ll come natural to him to take blood and not hurt the donor. He just needs some practice to hone his skill.

The raccoons and rabbits don’t count as practice; Patrick always snaps their necks before he drinks them dry to avoid needless suffering, since he has to drink every last drop to satisfy his hunger. Patrick needs a test dummy, someone or something he can’t hurt.

Jonny is the perfect test subject.

Patrick can’t hurt him. His fangs are sharp and his fingernails too, but he heals at superhuman speeds. Any bite will heal in a few minutes, a few hours if it’s bad. Patrick won’t be able to hurt him, not even if he manages to get his strength back.

Patrick, of course, is very _very_ against the idea. “I’ve never—not from _anyone_. I can always eat squirrels if I have to. Or rats.”

“You don’t want to eat rats.”

Patrick makes a face. He won’t admit it, but he does have a preference for what animals he likes to eat. Raccoons and rabbits are his number one victims, followed by opossums if he can manage to lure one, and at the very bottom chipmunks and mice and rats. He won’t like eating the rats, and Jonny knows that for a fact.

“What if I hurt you?”

“You can’t hurt me, and you know that.”  
Patrick makes that face again.

“Your bite will heal in a few minutes, an hour or two if it’s bad,” Jonny insists. “You can’t keep living off of animals, Patrick. There’s not enough in Chicago, unless you want to eat someone’s lost, beloved, cat.” Guilt tripping Patrick is a manipulative asshole move, but breaking him of his “vegetarianism” will save his life. “You’ll be able to hear my heartbeat, the way I can hear yours.”

“I can hear it when we’re in bed,” Patrick mumbles, pouting, but Jonny can see the gears turning in his head.

“You’ll be able to hear it when you’re sleeping.”

Patrick looks down at his bare feet, toes flexing. “I’ve never done this before, Jonny. I don’t know _how_ to do it.”

“Come here,” Jonny insists, taking Patrick’s hand and walking him backwards until the back of his own knees hit the sofa. He pulls Patrick down with him until Patrick is straddling his hips, chewing away at his bottom lip. “It’s the same with the raccoons. Just bite and suck.”

“Jonny—”

“Do you trust me?”

Patrick swallows, searching his face. “ _Yes_.”

“I trust you, the same way that you trust me. You _won’t_ hurt me.”

Patrick’s heart is pounding away, but he takes a deep breath. He braces his hands against Jonny’s chest, gathering his courage before he leans in, breathing hot air over the skin of Jonny’s neck. Jonny holds him by the hips. Patrick can’t hurt him and _won’t_ hurt him.

He hears Patrick swallow nervously before he feels his lips cover his neck, soft and sweet. Patrick only pauses for a second before his fangs sink into Jonny’s skin, two sharp pinpricks of pain. He feels it when Patrick starts to drink, his fangs sinking just a bit deeper. It hurts like two bee stings at first, throbbing uncomfortably until the pain edges away into something more comforting, easier to deal with.

Jonny closes his eyes, taking in the moment until Patrick shifts closer, sucking harder, moaning into the quiet of the night. Jonny gasps, a sudden rush of endorphins hitting him all at once, arousal creeping up his spine in a slow crawl. His fingers inch from Patrick’s hips to his ass, squeezing perk, round globes in his large hands. Patrick moans, weight shifting, grinding against Jonny as he drinks his fill.

Patrick is hard, hips moving in a rhythm that keeps pulling his fangs against Jonny’s skin with every roll, pleasure edging on pain, and it feels so fucking _good_ that Jonny grinds up against him. Patrick gasps his shock, ripping his mouth away from Jonny’s neck with a sharp shock of pain, taking a chunk of skin along with him. Blood starts gushing from Jonny’s neck in an instant, flowing down his chest and staining his shirt. Patrick licks his lips, mouth and chin covered in blood, and then his eyes get comically wide as he notices Jonny’s neck.

“ _Jonny_!” he yells in panic, scrambling for the nearest blanket. He presses it against Jonny’s neck in an attempt to stop the blood, heart hammering away so quickly that if Jonny didn’t know any better, he would suspect that Patrick was having a heart attack.

The bite doesn’t actually hurt now, and the bleeding is two seconds away from stopping. He can already feel his skin patching itself together.

“Hey,” he murmurs, grasping Patrick’s face and forcing him to look at him. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s already healing.”

Patrick continues to hold the blanket to his neck, breathing heavily. His skin is already brighter, looking healthier than Jonny has ever seen it, the blue of his eyes somehow sharper. “I can hear it.”

Jonny guides the blanket away from his neck. He’s no longer bleeding. “Hear what?”

Patrick smiles, small and beautiful, even with the blood around his mouth. “Your heartbeat.”

“Yeah?” Jonny lifts the blanket, holding Patrick’s chin between his fingers as he wipes his blood from Patrick’s face gently.

Patrick continues to smile, letting Jonny pamper him. He presses the flat of his palm against Jonny’s chest, right over his heart. “I can hear your blood moving.” His eyes roam over Jonny’s body, from the tip of his fingers, across his chest and up to his face. The fascination gives way to something sullen as Patrick’s face shifts, wonder changing swiftly to sadness and confusion. “Why would he—”

“Don’t think about that bastard right now,” Jonny interrupts, cupping Patrick’s face with both hands. “You did it.”

Patrick smiles, small and sad, body sagging under his sadness. The realization that he’s been lied to probably dawned on him far before this moment, but it’s truly hitting him now. The world around him is vastly different, like the fog clearing to reveal a bright, sunny day. Probably somewhere deep down Patrick loved his master. He’s been the only person that he’s known for over two centuries. A love must have been there, even a false one. Being betrayed by someone who you thought you loved—it’s the worse betrayal that there is.

“Hey,” Jonny says in an attempt to pull Patrick from his thoughts. The love Patrick has for his creator—Jonny will replace that with his own.

He leans forward, kissing the hollow of Patrick’s soft throat. If he strains his ears hard enough, he can hear his own blood thrumming through Patrick’s body, giving him life.

Having the skin ripped from his neck pulled Jonny out of the moment, but looking at Patrick like this: skin healthy, eyes as bright as the sky, thriving with life—he’s beautiful, and Jonny wants to get his mouth all over his pretty skin, still as smooth as marble. He does just that, dragging his lips across Patrick’s skin, biting softly. He hears it when Patrick gasps, mouth parting, heartbeat picking up. He braces his hands on Jonny’s shoulders, head lulling back to give him more access to his neck.

Jonny grabs his hips, grinding up just to hear Patrick moan. It’s a sweet noise, almost as sweet as the scent of his skin on a summer’s night. Patrick’s fingers dig into the hair at the back of his neck, the _Jonny_ escaping from his lips sweetly. Jonny grabs him under the back of his thighs and lifts, standing up so quickly that it startles Patrick into wrapping his legs around his waist instinctively.

Patrick looks down at him, eyes blown wide with arousal. He wraps his arms around Jonny’s shoulders before he tips his forward, and Jonny meets him halfway, lips crashing together. Patrick’s fang catches on his bottom lip, cutting sharp and quick. Patrick licks the blood away quicky, groaning into Jonny’s mouth.

It takes some time to get to the bedroom; Jonny keeps stopping to press Patrick against the wall and hump him, Patrick’s continuous whimpering and rolling of his hips driving him crazy.

The animal inside of Jonny just wants to mark and bite, so Jonny does just that, sinking his human teeth into Patrick’s skin and sucking, leaving behind angry, red bruises in his wake until Patrick’s neck is a maze of angry skin. Patrick lets him do this without a fight, moaning frenziedly, tugging at his hair and rolling his hips desperately, begging Jonny for more.

Jonny finally carries Patrick to the bedroom, stopping momentarily to flick the light on. He dumps Patrick on the bed, swallowing hungrily as Patrick scurries back on his heels, eventually lying across the mountains of pillows and spreading his legs wantonly, erection straining against his shorts.

Jonny breathes heavily, swallowing down a swell of arousal. He strips off his bloodied shirt, and then his shorts and underwear. Patrick groans at the sight of him, reaching between his legs to rub his palm over his dick. That sweet, naïve, innocent boy—that persona is gone, leaving behind an unrestrained slut. Jonny laughs at the image, crawling up from the bottom of the bed and between Patrick’s thighs, grabbing the hand between his legs by the wrist on the way up, trapping both hands over Patrick’s head.

“You’re a whore,” Jonny murmurs, placing a kiss at the corner of Patrick’s mouth, letting fondness seep into every word.

Patrick flushes, eyes dancing across Jonny’s face. “I haven’t done this,” he swallows, chasing Jonny’s mouth to return the kiss, “in a very long time.”

They kiss, Jonny licking into Patrick’s mouth, letting Patrick’s fangs cut his tongue. It doesn’t hurt, just the pinprick of pain, healing over almost immediately but staying open just long enough to let Patrick swallow some of his blood. He wonders briefly what it must taste like to intoxicate Patrick so much, but Patrick wrapping his legs around his waist and rolling his lips distracts him. “Is this what you want?”

Patrick takes a deep breath, wiggling his hands free from Jonny’s loose grip. He cups Jonny’s face, running a soft thumb under his eye, over a scar from a stick to the face. “Why didn’t you kill me? When you found me in your bed?”

“You looked like an angel lying there.”

“An angel?”

“Like a cherub from a renaissance painting. You looked so innocent. I thought it would be cowardly to kill you while you were sleeping.” Jonny turns his head, kissing Patrick’s palm. “I wouldn’t ever—you know that now? I wouldn’t ever hurt you.”

“I know,” Patrick sighs, his heart beating away at a steady rhythm, sure and trustful. “I really like you, Jonny.”

Jonny wants to hear _I love you_ , but he knows that that will come later. He kisses just under Patrick’s jaw, where his scent is strongest. He wants to lick there, suck a claiming mark, cover Patrick’s scent with his own so everyone will know who he belongs to. He bites down, swiping over Patrick’s skin with his tongue one, two, three times until he’s satisfied. “Is this what you want?”

Patrick closes his eyes, taking a moment, until he wraps his arms around Jonny’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. He’s careful with his teeth this time, desperate but sure of himself in a way that he’s not usually. When he pulls away to breathe, he rests his forehead against Jonny’s, nodding. “Yes.”

Jonny grins, shifting up to give Patrick room to work out of his shorts. He’s not wearing any underwear, which isn’t surprising. He walks around the cabin naked all the time, lounging over the sofa and in Jonny’s bed.

His body has always been a joy to look at, but Jonny’s avoided temptation out of respect, but now he’s been given permission to touch, and he does just that, running his fingers down Patrick’s thighs as Patrick takes his shirt off.

Goosebumps follow in the wake of Jonny’s fingers, and he follows with his mouth, kissing from Patrick’s knee down to his ankle. He bites the little bone there just to hear Patrick gasp. He kisses back up Patrick’s leg, biting his knee before he works his way up to his thighs.

Patrick’s legs spread open easily, heart pounding. He’s forgetting to breathe normally, distracted by Jonny’s wandering fingers and mouth. Jonny wants to taste him in his most intimate spot, but he kisses Patrick’s hip instead, biting down on the sharp bone. Patrick gasps, hips lifting off the mattress, but Jonny easily presses them back down, kiss after kiss after kiss until he kisses the head of Patrick’s cock where it’s resting against his belly.

Patrick takes a sharp intake of breath, fingers digging into Jonny’s hair as Jonny wraps a hand around his cock. He looks Patrick in the eye as he works his hand, slowly up and down at first, watching the way Patrick’s mouth parts open in the prettiest of _o’s_ , before he guides his thumb over the head. Patrick’s thighs are shaking, his fingers pressing into the back of Jonny’s skull.

There’s a spark in the air like in the moments before a lightning storm. When Jonny presses back on his heels, he can taste the electricity in the air, sharp and bitter. He runs his teeth over his canines, drinking in the smell of their arousal, warmth spreading through his tongue and down the rest of his body.

His cock throbs between his legs, tip red and angry, balls drawn up tight. He’s been using his hand during the day to get off to images of Patrick on his hands and knees, back bowed, rim red and puffy from abuse; Patrick’s thin legs wrapped around his thighs, moaning into his ear as he drags angry lines down his back.

He has to squeeze the base of his dick to regain control, whining at the picture before him now: Patrick on his back, legs spread wide, jerking his dick where Jonny left off, mouth soft and eyes heavy. Jonny crashes down on him, capturing his mouth in a brutal kiss, more bite than bark, leaving Patrick’s mouth a swollen mess when he finally lets him breathe.

They roll their hips together, Patrick’s leg sneaking up to dig his heel into Jonny’s back. “I’m going to fuck you,” Jonny growls, resting his weight on his elbows to fish under his pillow for the lube. “Gonna make you _mine_.”

Patrick makes a guttural noise, low and deep in his throat, mouth open wide to expose both sets of fangs. Jonny’s dick gives a weak spurt, hopelessly turned on by the thought of Patrick biting him again. The bite mark has healed over, but he feels a phantom throb as he pops the cap on the lube. He rubs his forefinger and thumb together, warming the liquid between his fingers before he slips his hand between Patrick’s thighs.

Patrick’s heartbeat spikes as Jonny does nothing but rub the pad of his finger over his rim, watching the way the flush crawls up Patrick’s skin. He continues to rub, peppering Patrick’s neck with kisses until he feels the tension leave Patrick’s body in smooth waves.

It draws a groan out of both of them when Jonny finally presses his finger in. Patrick’s body is hot within and out, yielding to Jonny easily as he works his finger in and out, tongue darting out between his lips every now and again to lick at a fang. Jonny nibbles at his chin, leaving behind little bitemarks as he works another finger in.

Patrick tenses again, flush coloring his cheeks and neck a bright red, his nipples two pink pebbles that Jonny can’t resist. He bites the skin around Patrick’s left nipple, leaving behind a wet mark before he engulfs the nub with his mouth, biting gently. Patrick keens, pushing Jonny’s fingers deeper, hips jerking erratically, not knowing what he wants more of: Jonny’s mouth or his fingers. Jonny decides for him, flicking his tongue against the sensitive nub just to hear him moan before he pulls his mouth away.

He watches Patrick suck in a breath before he pinches one nipple between his fingers and works a third finger into his hole. Patrick shouts, bucking up as his orgasm hits him, shooting all over his belly and even his chin. His body goes vice tight around Jonny’s fingers, and Jonny has to grab the base of his dick and squeeze to keep from coming.

Patrick breathes raggedly, fingers gripping the bed sheets in a death-grip until he comes back to himself, eyes blinking blurrily. His body relaxes enough to let Jonny pull his fingers free, wiping them on the inside of his thigh.

Jonny licks at his chin, tasting the familiar bitterness of cum before he drags his lips up, kissing Patrick’s mouth softly before he kisses his nose and then his forehead. “Can I?” he asks, cock dragging over Patrick’s thigh. Patrick hisses but nods, shifting to get comfortable. “Like this,” he says. “Wanna see you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jonny agrees, voice husky. He takes Patrick by the hips, lifting so he rests on his thighs, cock nudging between Patrick’s cheeks. Patrick moans when the head glides over his oversensitive rim, thighs shaking. Jonny kisses his forehead again as he takes his dick in hand and holds Patrick’s hip with the other, guiding himself to where Patrick is wet and open.

Patrick closes his eyes as he pushes in, sucking air between his teeth. Jonny bites at his mouth as he pushes in, all of his nerves on fire. Patrick is all hot wet warmth, yielding easily to the intrusion, legs hitching up higher as Jonny bottoms out, balls heavy and snug against his back.

Jonny can already feel his control slipping, letting out a weak whimper as Patrick tentatively rolls his hips, ready to give as good as he takes. Jonny feels blinded as he lifts up, thrusting in and out shallowly, mouth open, his own canines exposed to take in the smell of their fucking, hot and heavy in the small room.

Patrick mewls, and Jonny lets go, hooking Patrick behind the knees and over his elbows, changing the angle and spreading him impossible wide. The noise Patrick lets out—sweet like honey, high-pitched and desperate—fogs his mind, and all he can think about is fucking into that warm wet heat until he can come and knot.

He fucks and fucks, knot swelling at the base of his dick, the animal inside of him taking control. He pins Patrick beneath him, impaled on his cock and unable to escape, desperately clawing at Jonny’s back with long nails. The pain—sharp, nearly unbearable, so fucking _good_ —sends a jolt down Jonny’s spine, driving his hips harder and harder, mouth attached to Patrick’s neck where his teeth have drawn blood.

Patrick moans his encouragement, trying to roll his hips against Jonny’s thrust, cock hard again, the head dragging against Jonny’s stomach on every thrust. “ _Please_ ,” he cries, choking on air even though he doesn’t need it. “Jonny—”

Jonny doesn’t wait to hear what he says. He sits up, holding Patrick’s thighs apart with his hands, digging into the meaty pale expanse hard enough to leave bruises. His knot is hard and aching at the base, and he groans as he starts to push it in, watching Patrick’s sore, little rim stretch and give way, Patrick keening and trying to fight his grip. “Too much—Jonny, it’s _too_ much,” but Jonny keeps pushing and pushing, smelling Patrick’s arousal in the air, not hearing anything in his voice that says _stop_. Patrick wants this, babbling incoherently to himself when Jonny bottoms out and his knot is inside of him, feeling so full and secure that it’s almost too much.

Jonny growls, giving an experimentally thrust, stars dancing behind his eyes. Patrick cries, knot hard and unyielding against his sweet spot. Jonny rolls his hips, unable to make it very far, watching Patrick lose it as he comes again with another shout, body going so tight that it knocks Jonny right into his own orgasm. He fucks into Patrick as much as he can, head thrown back, riding his ass until Patrick makes a hurt noise.

It feels like hell to stop, but Patrick’s noises aren’t happy ones. Jonny braces himself not to crush him under his weight, getting his knees under his body before he wraps Patrick up in his arms, rolling as gently as he can until he’s on his back and Patrick is sitting on top of his thighs, eyes wet with red tears, snuffling but not enough to make Jonny worried. He gives a little experimental roll of his hips, causing both of them to hiss.

Jonny’s still coming, but he’s relaxed and calm with it, pleasure a low thrum he can ignore. He holds Patrick’s hips, rubbing his thumbs over the soft skin, drawing circles. “You okay?”

Patrick sniffles, but he’s being dramatic. His heart is calm, breathing even. In no distress. “Feels weird,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “‘m tired.”

“Yeah?” Jonny rolls his eyes playfully. “It’ll go down in a few minutes.”

Patrick goes quiet, hands braced on Jonny’s chest where he draws his own circles over his heart with his fingers. His thumb flicks against Jonny’s nipple, drawing a short breath from him. In retaliation Jonny thrusts up and Patrick gasps, digging his nails into Jonny’s pec. “ _Stop_.”

Jonny does as told, settling his hips down. The bruises he left on Patrick’s throat are starting to heal over to his disappointment. He’ll just have to leave more tomorrow, and the night after, and the night after that; he’ll leave a claiming mark on his neck every night if he has to.

Eventually Jonny’s knot goes down enough for Patrick to lift off his dick. He collapses at Jonny’s side, immediately crowding into his space to lie across him and stuff his face into his neck, mouth exactly where he bit earlier. He licks tentatively as if attempting to leave his own scent behind. Jonny plays with his curls, other hand resting on the swell of his ass.

Jonny dozes for a few hours before Patrick wakes him just before sunrise, biting sweetly into his skin without his permission, but he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes, letting Patrick drink until his cock grows hard, and then he wraps his arms around Patrick’s waist gently, flipping them over and slipping back inside where Patrick is still wet and open, Patrick’s teeth still in his neck, moaning loudly as he starts to thrust.

\- - -

In the laziness of summer nights they fuck, Patrick on his back, sharing the same breath, or Patrick riding Jonny’s dick for what feels like hours, teasing with gentle rolls of his hips until Jonny grows irritated and flips him over, fucking him on all fours like a beast. They fuck and Patrick drinks, growing more skilled at extracting his fangs from Jonny’s neck until he can feed without even waking Jonny up.

He doesn’t need to crowd into Jonny’s space anymore to hear his heartbeat, but he still insists on being right there, as close as can be. He likes to be cuddled and pampered and made to feel like he’s Jonny’s entire world, which he is.

Even with the newly installed, expensive as all hell WIFI, Jonny’s been ignoring the world. He checked once to see who won the cup—the Capitals—and to make a brief call to congratulate the Blackhawks’ newest draft pick, but other than that, he’s been silent. Patrick and their little cabin are his entire world, and he watches the calendar tick by far too quickly until its mid-July and he’s reconfirming with the flight company that their private plane will be waiting for them at 9pm in Grand Forks in early August.

Usually Jonny’s itching to get back to training camp, but this year that itch is a very dull ache that he’s easily able to stuff down. Most of his nights are going to be spent at the UC or on the road, and the thought of being away from Patrick makes his heart ache in funny ways that he’s never experienced before. He’s never felt the way he feels for Patrick and so quickly for anyone else. He wants to be with Patrick every second of every night, and as someone who usually starts to feel stuffy and annoyed by a significant other _always_ being there within weeks of dating, he craves Patrick’s attention as much as he craves for his.

Jonny’s never been _in_ love and it’s an awkward, horrible, _lovely_ feeling. He would fight the moon for Patrick, no questions asked, and that realization both frightens Jonny and fills him with an inner peace that he’s never had before. Patrick is his sole purpose for living these days, and giving any part of that purpose up to play hockey—it’s a sacrifice he sometimes doubts that he’s willing to make. But he has to make it, because hockey is an unavoidable part of his life, and also his first love. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he didn’t actually have hockey.

He doesn’t want to do it, but he leaves Patrick during the day to head to the nearest rink to put some work in. He’s been neglecting his training regime (and the countless messages from his trainers and coaches and teammates and sometimes his mom too), and he needs to be in _some_ semblance of shape when training camp starts.

Patrick is always fine. Jonny checks and double checks and then re-checks the boards on the windows before he leaves. Patrick always sleeps throughout his absence, but is grumpy when he wakes, rubbing cutely at his eye as he mutters, “don’t like it when I can’t hear your heart.” Jonny can only kiss his forehead and offer his neck in apology. He doesn’t like it when he can’t hear Patrick’s heartbeat either, but it’s a sacrifice they both have to make.

By the time August rolls around and Jonny has to start prepping the cabin for their long absence, his ache to actually get back on the ice starts to grow into something familiar. He’s missed Seabs and Sharpy and the familiar sounds of skates on ice and the roar of the crowd and even Colliton’s dumb, pointless, pep talks. It’s in his soul and his blood to be on the ice, and he can’t help but be excited to get back.

Patrick, on the other hand, doesn’t seem so gung-ho about the whole thing. All he’s known for the past two centuries is this forest, and the thought of leaving it fills him with a fear that he refuses to voice to Jonny, but one Jonny can always smell lingering on his skin. Chicago is very different from the forests surrounding Winnipeg with its skyscrapers and high winds and cars. Jonny lives in a high rise on the Gold Coast overlooking Lake Michigan; Patrick has only gone as high as the roof of the cabin to look at the stars. It’ll probably take some convincing to get him to step foot on the terrace.

All Jonny can do is reassure Patrick that everything will be alright. It will take some time, but Patrick will soon adapt to the modernness of the city and learn to enjoy it. If not, Jonny could always venture out into the suburbs somewhere close to a park where Patrick would feel more comfortable. The traffic and social life would be shit, but Patrick’s happiness is a higher priority than Jonny’s comfort.

Patrick has nothing to pack when it comes to that part of their move. He wears Jonny’s clothes when he does decide to wear clothes, which isn’t as often anymore now that they’ve been intimate. He walks around barefoot and stripped, enticing Jonny with his marble skin and soft mouth until Jonny gives in to temptation and takes him. All he has to store away is the iPad, and he stuffs that into the side compartment of the Jeep’s passenger side door ready to use on the short drive from the border crossing to Grand Forks.

Patrick hasn’t mentioned his former master in weeks, and Jonny doesn’t feel like dealing with the bastard, but he owes Patrick the chance to say his goodbyes if he wishes to.

Jonny pulls the Jeep’s back door open and stands there hesitantly. “Do you want to say goodbye?”

Patrick looks away into the distance, off to where the other cabin sits. His former master has made no attempt to reach out for him, either from complete defeat or lack of caring. It must bruise Patrick’s heart to know that he was so easily let go, only a tangible thing to keep around for company. He listens silently and then shakes his head, sadness washing over his face. “My answers are coming back to me.”

That statement needs to be unpacked and closely examined, but Patrick doesn’t give Jonny the time. He crawls into the trunk where Jonny has tucked his bags and laid down pillows and blankets to make him comfortable. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbles to reassure Jonny, nervousness rolling off of him like waves crashing against cliffs.

Jonny can only stuff down his own nerves and rub the back of Patrick’s neck where most of his tension seems to be gathering. Jonny’s driven between the border countless times with nothing more than a passport check and a curt nod to keep going. Maybe things are stricter at night, but Jonny will do _anything_ to keep Patrick safe. He’s never killed a man, but he’ll do it tonight for Patrick.

All their nerves are for nothing. Patrick remains in the trunk, silent as the night, barely breathing even though he pulled over and fed from Jonny a few miles away from the border. Border control checks Jonny’s passport and visa and does a brief search of the car with flashlights through the windows and a drug sniffing dog on the tires that ignores Patrick, and then Jonny is waved through with a smile and a “good luck this season” from an agent whose heart has been beating away with excitement since he recognized Jonny.

Jonny drives for another five miles just to clear the border completely before he pulls over and lets Patrick out. Patrick’s eyes are wide in the dark, nose twitching. “Where are we?”

Jonny takes Patrick’s hand, helping him climb out of the trunk. “Welcome to America, babe.”

Patrick’s nose twitches. “It smells weird.”

Laughter explodes from Jonny’s mouth. Patrick follows suit, his nerves more like waves on a rainy day against the shore; not calm, but not rough enough to bruise. He takes his place in the passenger seat, seatbelt safely across his chest but knees pulled up to his chin as he watches the world roll across endless fields. The drive between the Canadian border and Grand Forks is barren of any life except for the occasional gas stop and odd house that was built before they erected the highway.

Grand Forks opens into a city of small buildings that could never pass as skyscrapers, but there’s life here that Patrick isn’t used to seeing. The town Jonny took Patrick into was just that—a small town just outside of Winnipeg that boosted a Starbucks and a local electronics repair shop, but the people were few and far between. Here, on the streets of Grand Forks as they pass through the city center, there are numerous people milling around, enjoying the last remnants of summer before the bitter winter sets in.

“Chicago has more people.” It’s not a question, just a fact Patrick states as they stop at a stoplight and let people pass in front of them. Patrick watches a set of parents and their small child between them briskly wave their thanks as they safely make it across right as the light turns green.

“Lots more people,” Jonny agrees, turning left and away from the city towards the airport. He’s arranged for a car service to return his Jeep to the dealer back in Winnipeg for him. With the Teslas in the garage, there’s no room for the Jeep, and he has no plans on teaching Patrick how to drive any time soon.

“I can hear them all,” Patrick whispers, face strained. “So much blood—”

“Here.” Jonny sticks his arm in front of Patrick’s face. It’s only a short drive from the heart of the city to the airport, but they have time to kill. “Drink, it will calm you down.”

“Can you drive with one hand?” Patrick asks, but takes Jonny’s arm anyway, licking over his upturned wrist before he sinks his teeth in. It feels like two needle pricks, sharp and quick and now ultimately painless. Jonny can only feel Patrick drawing the blood from his veins if he concentrates hard enough.

Patrick only drinks a mouthful before extracting his fangs elegantly. He licks over the pinpricks gently before letting Jonny have his arm back. “What am I going to do when you’re on the road, Jonny?” There’s panic in his voice, increasing as the airport comes into view. “Jonny, what if—”

Jonny’s been thinking about these things to make the transition easier for Patrick. One day Patrick will have to drink from someone other than him, but that day won’t be for years to come. “We’ll just drain me of some and save it in the fridge. Won’t be fresh, but better than nothing, eh?”

Patrick looks grim, relaxing back into his seat while Jonny pays for their parking. He lets his knees down, head cranked to the side to watch a plane take off. “Are we on one of those?”

Jonny pulls the car into a spot, leaving the ticket on the dash for the car service to deal with. “Not the big ones. A small one. Just you, me, a crew member and the pilot.”

“Will it fall out of the sky?”

That’s always a possibility, but Jonny doesn’t let Patrick know that. They’d both probably survive the fall with their incredible healing, but it would hurt like hell, and if the plane goes up in flames—Jonny will _die_ trying to get Patrick out of there before he lets him burn up like a pile of hay. “No, it’s perfectly safe. Trust me, yeah?” He can’t slow his heartbeat down like Patrick to mask a little white lie, but Patrick doesn’t seem to be paying much attention. He’s looking around the mostly empty parking lot, watching what little people are about.

“Come on,” Jonny says, making sure to stuff Patrick’s iPad into his carry on before he grabs his suitcase and duffel. “We have to check our bags and then wait a little before we get on the plane, ok?”

Patrick nods absentmindedly. He takes the suitcase handle and Jonny’s hand, squeezing tightly as they make their way across the airport. Immediately upon entering Patrick stops, eyes squeezing shut, making a high-pitched noise of pain. “It’s so bright. Jonny—”

Jonny slips his Ray-bans over Patrick’s eyes. Wearing sunglasses is weird to do at night, but people thinking Patrick is weird is the least of their concerns. “That better?”

Patrick opens his eyes, blinking. He nods and then instantaneously flinches when an announcement is made over the loudspeaker. There are tears in the corner of his eyes, and Jonny uses a tissue to wipe them away immediately, so no one sees the blood. “Hey, _hey_ , it’s ok, I know its loud and bright but it’s just for a little bit, yeah? I promise. Just a little bit.”

Everything is always very loud and very bright for Jonny with his heightened senses, but he’s learnt how to tune it out. He grew up in all of this and his body and mind have learnt how to deal with bright lights and overly loud noises. Patrick’s been tucked away in the wilderness for hundreds of years; all of this is very overwhelming and scary, but they have to get through the airport before they can reach home.

Patrick squeezes his hand harder, sniffling the whole way through baggage check-in. The woman behind the counter looks at Patrick sideways through the whole procedure, enough that Jonny has to explain quietly that Patrick is “light and noise sensitive”. The woman looks down in shame as she hands their tickets over, briskly directing them towards the private flying lounge.

Jonny uses Patrick’s “light and noise sensitivity” to convince the staff to turn down the lights and to give them space in the lounge. Patrick can’t eat or drink any of the food laid out for them, and Jonny doesn’t feel like doing much eating, but he picks at some fruit and guzzles down a whole bottle of water. He has to leave Patrick momentarily to use the toilet, but when he returns Patrick seems a bit calmer. A kindly staff member is speaking to him about something on the iPad, scrolling with her finger. She smiles when Jonny approaches, asking if he needs anything before bidding her goodbye.

“I told her you play hockey,” Patrick says when Jonny looks over to examine the screen. The Disneyland castle is looking right back at him. “She asked if I needed something and I just blurted it out.” He blushes, cheeks red. “She’s the only person I’ve spoken to in years, except for you and—”

Jonny plays with Patrick’s curls lovingly. “You did good.”

“She said she was from Anaheim. There’s this place there. Disneyworld?”

“Land,” Jonny corrects. “Disney _land_. There’s a Disneyworld in Florida.”

Patrick nods. “Disney _land_. She said she grew up going to Ducks games and Disneyland. I didn’t tell her that the Ducks are stupid. Something told me that it wasn’t right.”

“It can be a bit rude to shit over someone’s childhood team, even if they _are_ the Ducks.”

“Can we go here?” Patrick asks, scrolling through pictures of the castle. “It looks pretty. Even at night.”

Disneyland right now would probably be too much for Patrick to handle, but one day Jonny will take him. Probably during the bye-week, just to get away from Chicago. “Anywhere you want to go, I’ll take you.” He lets Patrick keep scrolling until he gets to a picture of Mickey Mouse. “Did you know he started it all?”

“The mouse started the castle?”

Jonny laughs into Patrick’s curls. “No. It started with a cartoon of Mickey Mouse. The whole place is based around movies that the man who created Mickey made. That’s why it’s called Disneyland, after the company. Disney. There are a whole lot of movies.”

Patrick looks intrigued. It’s an opportunity for Jonny to ease some of his stress and anxiety over the lights and noise. “Here, let me show you.”

Jonny gets _Snow White_ playing. It’s long and rough to watch in Jonny’s opinion, but Patrick is captivated enough that he’s distracted when the announcements come over the PA system. He’s grumpy when they have to board the plane at his movie being interrupted, but he settles in his seat with his iPad propped up.

He notices liftoff because how could he _not_ , his fingernails digging into Jonny’s wrist as they rumble down the runaway and finally get shakily into the air, breathing heavily. Jonny doesn’t wait for the ok to take his seatbelt off, badly ignoring the rules to get Patrick settled comfortably on his lap. “Here, we’re ok,” he says into his ear, starting _Snow White_ again.

Patrick manages to get through _Snow White_ and _Cinderella_ by the time they touchdown in Chicago. Jonny dozed off somewhere at the end of _Snow White_ , but Patrick brings him around before the plane lands. “Are we home Jonny?”

Jonny looks out the window at the lights. “Yeah, we’re home.”

\- - -

Patrick does not like the high rise and that is a fact that cannot be changed, even when Jonny insists on the amazing views of Lake Michigan.

“I can’t see shit at night,” Patrick deadpans, unimpressed.

Jonny _really_ likes his high rise.

The security is awesome, the terrace is large enough for his garden, and the views of Lake Michigan _are_ spectacular. Everything he needs is right in the neighborhood, and the trip between home and the UC is nothing. He’s willing to make many sacrifices for Patrick, but the high rise might be one that he’s unwilling to budge on.

The interior of the apartment is what displeases Patrick the most. There are windows _everywhere_ , but none of the blinds are strong enough to completely block out the sun. Patrick must sleep in the walk-in closet in the master bedroom with the blankets stuffed under the crack in the door, and not being able to sleep like a prince nestled in Jonny’s sheets has ruined his life, as he dramatically puts it. Jonny can only roll his eyes fondly and make an appointment with a company that can install black-out shades and curtains. Until installation is complete, Patrick must sleep in the walk-in nestled on a pillow of blankets.

The big screen in the living room soothes some of Patrick’s irritation at being “abandoned”. He can stream all of his Disney movies and hockey games in high definition, with the speakers turned up as high as his ears can handle. He lives like a little prince sitting on a throne made of Jonny’s expensive sectional, begrudgingly happy despite what he says. Patrick is still nervous, anxiety always under his skin, but he _is_ happy, and for now that’s all that matters.

The only thing Patrick will willingly admit to liking in the apartment is the bear-claw tub in the middle of the master bath. Despite it still being August, he likes to fill the bathtub with hot water and just sit and soak for what feels like hours, draining the tub when the water gets cold and then filling it right back up with hot water. Sometimes Jonny joins him, Patrick relaxing between his legs and napping peacefully until the water runs cold, but most nights Patrick is happy to be alone, spending all night soaking.

He likes to be warm, even at the tall end of summer. “It was always cold, even during the summer,” he explains one night as Jonny’s drying him off. It’s 4am and Jonny has to be at the United Center by 9 for the first day of training camp, but it’s his turn to feel anxious; he can’t sleep, butterflies floating around in his stomach. He can’t place where his anxiety is coming from, but he concentrates on coddling Patrick to try and ignore it.

Patrick is more than capable of toweling himself dry, but trying to reign in his unruly curls gives Jonny something to do with his hands. “Yeah?”

“Not the cabin,” Patrick clarifies. He’s balanced on the sink counter like some sort of child in a fluffy robe Jonny bought just for him. “The apartment.”

Jonny’s fingers pause shortly. “The apartment?”

“Not this apartment. The one I shared with my parents and sisters.” Jonny slowly starts massaging his fingers into Patrick’s scalp through the towel. “It was always cold, no matter what we did.”

“You lived in an apartment?”

“It was a house, with lots of rooms. We shared one, all six of us. The bathroom was at the end of the hall and we shared it with everyone else on the same floor. Back then it was normal, but right now I think people would find it gross.”

Jonny hums. He doesn’t know much about the slums of the 19th century, but he does know that they were breeding grounds of misery and disease; Patrick falling ill with consumption is no surprise. “Couldn’t have been good for your cough.”

“I didn’t get consumption until I moved to New York City,” Patrick says wistfully, gazing out of one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows. They’re so high up no one can see them clearly, not even in the dead of night with all the lights on. “There weren’t any jobs for me in Buffalo, so I had to move to a bigger city. That’s where I got it.”

Jonny makes a mental note to do some research into New York in the 19th century, see what industries were around and when. “All your memories have come back?”

Patrick nods, still looking out the window. “Cassius kept me weak so I wouldn’t remember.” Patrick has never referred to his former master by his given name, and it comes out sounding bitter on his tongue, hatred seeping into every syllable. “He never wanted me to get away, so he made me dumb and blind and _afraid_.” He curls his fingers into fists, nails digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood.

Jonny attempts to take his hands to stop him, but Patrick is as strong as stone, refusing to uncurl his fingers or look at Jonny. “Hey,” Jonny says, trying to make his voice authoritative. “ _Hey_.”

Patrick finally looks at him, eyes dark and angry. “I _hate_ him.”

“I know,” Jonny agrees, finally managing to get Patrick to unball his fists. He takes the wet towel, wiping away the blood even though the wounds are starting to heal. “You have every right to hate him.”

“I was a whore,” Patrick states suddenly, face crumbling with shame. “I worked in a factory while I was in Buffalo, but my hand—” he lifts his left hand, twirling the wrist easily, “I crushed my fingers trying to pull a thread through a machine. I couldn’t find work in the factories, and we needed the money. Mama and Papa worked so hard, and so did my sisters, but Jackie was so little. I went to New York, because it was bigger than Buffalo, but I couldn’t find work in the factories either, or selling newspapers, so I became a whore.” His eyes are wet as he looks at Jonny, sadness written all over his fine features. “A lot of men who said I was going to hell were also the men paying for me.”

“He was a client, and he was so _rich_. He paid me more than anyone else ever had, and when I started coughing up blood, he didn’t mind unlike the others. The others. They knew I had consumption, and they didn’t care if I had syphilis and they gave it to their wives, but consumption? They wouldn’t see me anymore, so Cassius became my only client. He _knew_ I was dying, and that made him happy because I had to rely on him. He promised he could make me better, if only I came with him. I didn’t want to leave because of my family but—” he bites his bottom lip, drawing blood, refusing to look at Jonny once again.

Jonny takes his chin, lifting his head, giving Patrick his fondest look. Patrick’s life as a 19th century prostitute is nothing to be ashamed of; it was the life he had to live to provide for his family. Jonny cannot begrudge him for the decisions he had to make even before he was even a blimp on the radar. “But?” he prompts softly, knowing that Patrick needs to let this all out.

“But he promised to take care of them. He even sent my mother money to pay the rent for six months. She warned me to be careful, but I thought Cassius—he said he loved me, and I didn’t love him, but the other whores said it was always better to have a fool on your finger than to have nothing, so I went. I never thought that it was strange that I only saw him at night. I was a whore. We only worked at night anyway, and I always assumed during the day that he was like the rest, working and pretending to be a loving father and husband.”

“We rode on the train the first night together, and he gave me a medicine that made my cough better, but it also made me so dizzy and out of it. I felt like I was floating. I don’t remember the journey, but we must have changed trains at one point. There were men there, who made sure I took the medicine. I don’t know if—” Patrick shakes his head as if to rid himself of a bad memory. “When I came to, _really_ came to, we were in the cabin. Cassius said I was dying, and I _knew_ that. But dying and actually dying are two different things. I knew my body was dying, but I was still living, but Cassius insisted that I was at the end. He told me he could stop it, and that I could go home and see my family again, and I believed him. I didn’t _know_ what he was going to do.”

Patrick takes a deep breath, and then the tears start, like a dam opening to the flood. Red, angry, tears start to fall from his eyes, rolling down his pale cheeks. “It was horrible. It didn’t feel like what you feel when I drink from you. He attacked me, tore at my throat. _It hurt so much_. I thought he was _eating_ me, and when I finally thought that it would stop and I would die, he bit his own wrist and forced me to drink his blood. After that—”

Jonny pulls him close, wrapping his arms around Patrick in a protective hug. Patrick clings to him, nails tearing his shirt. “I _hate_ him,” he sobs. “He never once—I ran away just to see what he would do and he never _once_ —”

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Jonny interrupts, even though he knows that it _does_ matter to Patrick. The monster he called a master for two hundred years never _once_ attempted to come after him. It must make Patrick feel like a piece of trash, easily discarded without a second thought.

“He was afraid of the big, bad, wolf,” Jonny lies because he knows that it can’t be the truth. Cassius must be older than Patrick, maybe by a few hundred years—the name sounds suspiciously Roman—and far stronger. If he had wanted Patrick, he would have come for him, despite Jonny’s presence. Jonny would have put up a fight, but logically he doesn’t think he would have won. “He was afraid I was going to eat him.”

Patrick shakes his head, laughing breathily into Jonny’s neck. “I can hear when you’re lying to me, Jonny.”

“Should have never let you have my blood,” Jonny mumbles, keeping his voice light. He pulls back enough to wipe the tears from under Patrick’s eyes with his thumb, gentle. “You’re free of him now. Can do whatever you want. Remember or forget what you want, go where you want, _eat_ what you want. You’re free.”

Patrick shakes his head softly. “Not free. I belong to you, remember?”

Jonny shrugs. “Yeah, you do. But wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do. That’s up to you, as long as you come back to me during the day. Going to cost me over two grand to install those blinds, just for you.”

“What if I find another werewolf lover?”

The thought makes Jonny clench his jaw, trying not to sneer, worriedly possessive. “I’d kill him.” He presses his mouth against Patrick’s throat, biting meanly. “Need to find a way to permanently mark you.”

Patrick makes a soft noise. “I like making you have to bite me every night.”

“Yeah?” Jonny says, licking Patrick’s skin, but he can sense that they’re both now too emotionally exhausted to actually fuck. Patrick wraps his legs around his waist and Jonny carries him to the bed, remembering to set an alarm before he falls asleep in the cradle of Patrick’s thighs.

When he wakes, Jonny is alone, but he can hear Patrick sleeping soundly in the closet, the feeling of phantom lips on his neck. He presses his thumb into his neck, smilingly gently to himself as he gets out of bed, tired and aching and not ready to train. He brushes his teeth and showers, listening all the while to the sound of Patrick’s heartbeat thumping away.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Like a quiet lullaby.

**Author's Note:**

> *we're all going to pretend like no one checks your passport/ID when boarding an airplane, yes? ok. I am also a poor so I have no idea how the private plane life works 


End file.
